Page 86 of Unexpected Shot
I swear this man buys golf balls and audacity in bulk.
Me
My play had nothing to do with you.
I find that hard to believe.
Well, believe it.
Care to try and prove that?
My immediate response is to ask ‘how,’ but I have a feeling I’m going to regret saying that.
Come to my room. If I play like shit tomorrow, it had nothing to do with us.
“Shelby? You in?”
“Yes.” That’s the word spoken, except I wasn’t saying yes to the question Gabi asked me about dinner. The yes was to Beau, only I said it out loud instead of texting it.
I am so fucked in the head it isn’t funny.
“Sorry, I meant yes I’d love to, but I can’t,” I quickly try to cover up my blunder. “Agreed to meet up with some old friends tonight.”
Old friends is a stretch of how to describe Beau, but…
“Where is that son of mine?” Mrs. Devereaux asks, as if she knows I was just thinking about him. “He should be out here supporting you.”
“I knew he wasn’t going to be here,” I defend. “After yesterday, we both felt it would be best—and Ethan agreed—that he stay away today. Just a day to cool things off.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Mr. Devereaux says in a huff. “Maryann, call Beau. Tell him he’s meeting us for dinner tonight. I didn’t come all this way to not even see my son.”
“I think he might have plans,” I say, immediately wanting to smack my hand over my mouth. Why did I say that? I’m a freaking idiot!
“Really?” Gabi says. “With who?”
“Not sure,” I quickly say as my phone vibrates in my hand again.
What do you say, Belle. You in?
“I gotta go!” I panic, giving everyone a hug and saying goodbye. They all seem confused, but nobody presses me on my sudden departure, and I leave so fast a trail of dust follows me.
Which is great. I don’t want to have to tell them the highly inappropriate things I’m about to do to their son.
“Pants off.”
I push past a shirtless Beau as he stands inside the door of his hotel room.
“Belle! What a surprise.”
I throw my hands on my hips and turn around, only to see Beau with a shit-eating grin on his face as he leans against one of the dressers in his hotel room. Why did he feel the need to dress like a slut when he knows what’s about to happen? His abs on full display, paired with low-hanging gray sweatpants…it’s icing on my shame cake.
“You’re the worst.”
“Am I though?” He pushes off the dresser and walks toward me. “Would you be here if I was actually the worst?”
I take in a deep breath, because it’s the only way I won’t strangle him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
